


Once and Never

by CracklPop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adult!Stiles, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Kid!Stiles, M/M, Some pre-pre-pre-Sterek, Steter Secret Santa 2019, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21866935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: Peter Hale, recently graduated from college and home for the holidays, finds himself roped into attending his nephew Derek's parent-teacher conferences, where the chemistry teacher unexpectedly captivates him. Derek's schedule says the instructor should be Adrian Harris, but the substitute teacher Peter meets is named Stiles. This is a time-travel AU for Steter Secret Santa 2019.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 83
Kudos: 913
Collections: Steter Secret Santa 2019





	Once and Never

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anoTherloNelyheaRT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoTherloNelyheaRT/gifts).



> A Steter Secret Santa gift for anoTherloNelyheaRT. I hope this is close to what you wanted and that you enjoy it!

Beacon Hills High School hadn’t changed much in the three and a half years since Peter had been a student there. Same combination of deodorant, lust, and aggression perfuming the air. Same scuffed linoleum covering the floors. Same handsome basketball star smiling out from the trophy case. 

Peter paused next to the display, shaking his head at his own youthful idiocy. He loved the game, but playing with humans hadn’t been the challenge. Peter’s real objective had been to see if he could maintain control over himself in high-stress, competitive situations. 

Talia had told him he was reckless, that he should focus on academics, where he’d be less likely to stand out. She had lost that argument, and she’d lost again when her son, Derek, wanted to play a few years later. 

Peter was declared a bad influence—not for the first time—but Derek was still on the basketball team. Talia had taken a very small measure of revenge, though, which was why Peter was back on campus that evening instead of at home relaxing. 

“You’re such a role model for Derek,” Talia had said sweetly, ambushing Peter over breakfast that morning. “I’ve told his teachers you’ll attend the parent-teacher conferences tonight.”

Peter had scowled. They both knew Derek was an exemplary student, and if there were any real problems with his behavior at school, Talia would never have sent Peter in her place. She just didn’t want to spend a beautifully clear, early-winter night sitting in a stuffy classroom when she could be leading a pack run. 

He had agreed grumpily, unable to come up with an excuse not to—he’d just completed his undergrad education a semester early and was back in his sister’s house for the winter holidays without any real plans until the turn of the year. He suspected there were many _Uncle Peter can take care of that_ tasks in front of him. 

Peter squared his shoulders and made his way past a wall of lockers, headed back toward the science wing of the school. Derek had chemistry with an A. Harris, according to the schedule Talia had printed off for him. 

As he went deeper into the building, Peter peered curiously into open classrooms, seeing familiar faces of instructors in many cases. He didn’t pass many people in the hallways on his way to the chemistry room; the time period assigned to Derek’s parents was one of the last for the night. The pale winter sun had long since set, and Peter thought enviously of his sister, who likely was already running over the frosty ground, cold winter air in her fur and the light of the stars brightening her path.

Peter found the correct classroom and pushed the door open, wanting to get the conferences over as quickly as he could. The room’s only occupant was a lean, dark-haired man, who was flipping through a sheaf of papers, one hip propped against the edge of a large desk. 

“Mr. Harris, I presume?” Peter said in greeting, eyebrows raised in surprise over how young the teacher looked. He had to be closer to Peter’s age than Talia’s. 

The teacher straightened and an expression of distaste flitted across his face at the name Harris. 

“No, Mr. Harris received an unexpected teaching opportunity halfway across the globe, and quit his job recently,” he informed Peter. “I’m Stiles Gajos. I’ll be filling the position until winter break. The district couldn’t get someone long-term until January.” He paused, taking in Peter’s appearance with a long look. “This is the time slot for Derek Hale’s family, but something tells me you’re not Derek’s father.” 

“I’m his uncle,” Peter replied, crossing the room to shake the teacher’s hand. “Peter Hale.” 

Mr. Gajos’ heart stuttered in response to the name, but he quickly recovered and a small smile played on his lips. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hale.”

“Likewise. And, please, call me Peter.” 

“Thank you,” Mr. Gajos said. “You’re welcome to call me Stiles.” He gestured for Peter to take a seat at one of two chairs set in front of his desk before taking one himself. “I admit I haven’t been Derek’s teacher for very long, but based on what I’ve seen so far, he’s an attentive and dedicated student. According to Mr. Harris’ records, Derek hasn’t missed any assignments. He participates in class and seems to have a good attitude.”

Peter nodded at the words without paying them his full attention. He wasn’t surprised to hear that Derek was an excellent student. With the exception of his controversial—at least in Talia’s eyes—basketball career, Derek was annoyingly close to ideal: good grades, National Merit Scholar girlfriend, student council…he didn’t even offer more than a token protest when Talia reminded him about his less-pleasant household chores. 

No, Peter didn’t need one of Derek’s teachers to tell him about his faultless nephew. He did, however, mean to enjoy the way Stiles’ lips wrapped around words like _attentive_ and _dedicated_. The way the teacher smelled of sweet-spicy citrus and something mellower, like cedar. The restless movements of his long fingers and the way his lashes seemed to brush against the tops of his cheeks when he blinked. 

“…about that?” 

Peter brought his gaze up from Stiles’ mouth reluctantly. It appeared they’d moved on from Derek’s classroom habits, but he wasn’t sure what he’d missed. 

“Sounds like Derek’s not in any danger of failing chemistry,” Peter observed, giving _chemistry_ an ever-so-slight emphasis to see if Stiles would react. 

He did, but not as Peter might have predicted. Stiles tilted his head to give Peter a considering look, his amber-brown eyes penetrating Peter’s usual self-assured facade.

“Yeah, Derek’s…good,” Stiles said. “Not in any danger.” A pause. “Of failing chemistry.” 

“So, where did you teach before Beacon Hills?” Peter threw the question out, feeling the conversation veering from his control. 

“Different places,” Stiles replied. “Quebec City, most recently.” 

“How many places could you have had time to teach in?” Peter wondered, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t look older than twenty.” 

“I’m twenty-five, actually,” Stiles said, amused. 

“What brought you to Beacon Hills?”

“The wildlife.” Stiles smiled his small, private smile again. “I’m kidding. It was work—what else? I used to have family in the area, and when the posting came up, I figured I’d see if things were the way I remembered them.”

“And are they?” Peter was fascinated by that smile. It was sad, somehow. 

“All the old landmarks are still around. The library, the sheriff’s station. That big old house in the woods.”

“Hale House,” Peter said automatically. 

“It’s beautiful,” Stiles said, nodding. “Derek told me his family’s been there for generations.” 

“It is beautiful,” Peter agreed, trying to see his ancestral home from an outsider’s view. “I’ve been studying overseas for a while and I—I missed it more than I thought I would.” 

“Home is important,” Stiles murmured. 

There was a short silence while Stiles appeared lost in memories and Peter wondered why his normal ability to shamelessly flirt seemed to have deserted him. He wanted to unwrap Stiles and see what lay inside, but he didn’t see a way to start yet. 

“Well,” Stiles said, voice sounding loud in the otherwise empty room. “Derek’s a great kid—”

“Yes, Derek’s wonderful,” Peter interrupted. “Am I keeping you? There must be other parents you need to see.”

“No, you’re my last appointment for the night,” Stiles said, standing and gathering up his papers. “It was nice to meet you, Peter.” 

“Yes, very nice,” said Peter automatically, rising to his feet so they were face to face. “Listen…Stiles. I don’t suppose you’d like to get a cup of coffee with me?” 

Stiles blinked several times before opening his mouth and slowly saying, “Uh…sure? I mean, I guess…there’s nothing wrong with getting some coffee. With you. Peter Hale.” 

“Good.” Peter’s reply was firm, and he gently but inexorably herded Stiles through getting his coat and scarf on and turning out the lights. He abandoned the remainder of Derek’s parent-teacher conference meetings without another thought, his focus on the attractive, engaging man next to him.

They exited the building through a side door, a breath of night wind greeting them. Stiles tipped his head back to the clear sky and crescent moon. 

“Pretty night,” Peter commented, then inwardly cursed the inanity. 

“Where’d you study?” Stiles asked. “You said you were overseas.”

“I did two years in London,” Peter replied. “Then a summer in Lyon. This autumn was my last semester of undergrad, and I spent it on campus in New England.” 

He drew Stiles toward his car, an old Jeep Cherokee he was borrowing from Talia while in town. 

“You said you were in Canada—where else have you lived?” Peter asked, but Stiles was distracted by the Jeep, circling it with interest. 

“The history of Jeeps is really interesting,” Stiles said. “I mean, some people would argue that these kinds of models aren’t really Jeeps, but I think the evolution of the brand is okay. Maybe not always my taste, granted. These early Cherokees are still pretty cool. Even though the Jeep Wave only counts in some kind of CJ.”

“You’re a Jeep enthusiast,” Peter smiled. 

“Yeah, my mom had an old CJ-5,” Stiles said. 

Peter opened the passenger door for Stiles then walked around to the driver’s side. 

“I think I’ve seen one of those around town recently,” Peter said as he started the car. “My sister Talia—she’s Derek’s mom—knows someone in the sheriff’s department, and I want to say the Jeep was at Hale House last week.” 

Stiles cleared his throat and stared out the window. 

“It was probably Deputy Stilinski,” Stiles said, voice tight. “Derek…Derek mentioned that his family was friendly with the Stilinskis. He had to miss a day of class for a funeral a couple of weeks ago. The deputy’s wife just…um, she died.” 

“Yes, I’d heard that from Talia, and—are you all right?” Peter asked, concerned at the spike in Stiles’ heartbeat and the sudden smell of saltwater. He stopped at the edge of the parking lot and turned to Stiles. “Did you know the woman who died?” 

“Of course not,” Stiles faced the windshield and made a strange noise that Peter decided after a few seconds was meant to be a laugh. “I don’t have any family here anymore. I’m sorry, I…my own mother passed away when I was a kid, and I guess sometimes unexpected things remind me of her.” 

“I’m sorry you lost her so young.” Peter paused. “If you’re still up for coffee, there’s a quiet place a few streets off the main drag.”

“Yeah, yes, sounds good. I’m fine, thanks.” Stiles blinked a few times then turned a more genuine smile toward Peter. “Sorry about that.”

“I was never close with my mother, but Talia and my brother and all my nieces and nephews are…well, I don’t know what I’d do without them. I loved traveling, but I could only really enjoy it because I knew I had something to come back to.” Peter flushed a little, surprised he had revealed so much. But the dark, velvet covering of night made confessions and confidences easier, and Stiles’ warm brown eyes were still a little sad. 

“You’d do anything to save them,” Stiles murmured. “I get that.”

“Yes….” Peter frowned. He didn’t know that he would put it quite the way Stiles had, but he couldn’t argue that he loved his family—his pack—deeply. 

“So, does this quiet coffee place have drinks with whipped cream and sprinkles? Because after an entire evening of talking to parents about why their kids aren’t acing chemistry, I think I need something decadent.” Stiles changed the subject abruptly, but Peter, unaccustomed to exposing his vulnerabilities, was thankful for the shift. 

“I’m sure there’s no shortage of whipped cream there,” he answered. “I recommend an eggnog latte. They use eggnog instead of milk and it’s absolutely delicious.” 

“So, what did you study in undergrad?” Stiles asked as they drove. It wasn’t very far, but it was too chilly for a human to feel entirely comfortable walking, Peter felt. He’d picked up more on purely human idiosyncrasies in college—he had human relatives, of course, but most of them had been around werewolves for so long that they didn’t react the same way as the supernaturally ignorant. Peter had gotten better at disguising himself, although he wondered occasionally if the Hales of Beacon Hills had become too used to the idea of safety in their little town. 

After a few minutes, Peter realized he hadn’t answered Stiles’ question. 

“Oh, I majored in history,” Peter said. “Most of my focus was on Ancient Greece.”

“Did you know Herodotus wrote about circumcision taking place in Egypt as early as the fifth century BCE?” Stiles remarked, then immediately blushed a deep red and stared down at his own knees. “I mean…I read that once. Not that you were talking about, you know. Um…religious practices.” 

Peter was unexpectedly charmed. Stiles was a compelling and puzzling mix of world-weary and youthful. 

“What an interesting range of knowledge you have,” he said lightly. 

“Well, Wikipedia’s an amazing thing.” Stiles shrugged, then for a second he froze. “You’ve heard of that, right? Wikipedia?”

“I think one of my nieces mentioned it. Some kind of reference website?” Peter maneuvered the Jeep into a parking spot near the coffee place and turned off the engine. 

Stiles rubbed his palms on his trousers before unfastening his seat belt and getting out. He shivered a little in the cold air and Peter felt justified in taking the car. They walked into the cafe side by side, Peter sneaking the occasional glance at what little he could make of Stiles’ lithe form through his wool coat. 

Five minutes later, tucked up in a back booth with two steaming cups of coffee—Stiles’ topped with generous swirls of whipped cream and red sprinkles—Peter watched as his companion slipped off his heavy coat and unwound his scarf. The brief time outside had coaxed a rosy glow to Stiles’ cheeks, and moisture from the foggy night clung to his hair in glistening drops. 

“Were you in Quebec long?” Peter asked, sipping his coffee. 

Stiles swallowed a mouthful of whipped cream and waved his hand a little. 

“Not so long,” he responded, tongue darting out to catch a bit of cream at the edge of his mouth. Peter knew from Stiles’ scent and body language that he wasn’t intending any of his actions to be erotic. Which made them even more appealing. How someone as beautiful as Stiles had gotten to his mid-twenties without a fair amount of debauchery was beyond Peter. 

“I’m impressed you’re qualified to teach in more than one country,” said Peter. 

“Oh, well….” Stiles made a vague gesture. “It’s mostly, er, paperwork.” He cleared his throat. “Enough about me. What are you planning to do next?” 

“Graduate school,” Peter replied. “I’m taking some time off for a few months, but I’ve been accepted to law school. I’m supposed to start in the fall.” 

“Big plans for your time off?”

“I haven’t seen my family for more than a few days together in years. For at least the next three or four months, I’ll help out my sister. She has four kids. My brother’s planning to be around for a while, too—he and his wife just had their first baby. I guess it’ll be something of a reunion at Hale House.”

“Sounds nice,” Stiles said, voice gone soft and slightly sad again. “I’m happy for you, Peter. I’m glad you’ll all spend time safe together.” 

“So am I. Thanks.” Peter looked down at his coffee, swirling it thoughtfully. “My brother’s actually coming into town tomorrow morning. The Hales are…well, I guess you could call us more pagan than anything else.” He shot Stiles a quick grin, pleased that the other man didn’t look horrified or condescending. 

“You’re celebrating the winter solstice?” Stiles asked. “It’s a season of rebirth...someone told me.” 

“The druids' solstice ceremonies focused on the return of the sun. So, in that way, rebirth is a fair way of looking at it. Although, frankly, what it’s meant to me is the opportunity to indulge in holiday cocktails and bonfire parties.”

“We did Christmas when my mom was alive,” Stiles said with a distant look in his eyes. “A real tree, tons of ornaments, big, old-fashioned lights. It was all different when….” He took a long drink then propped his chin in his palm, absently stirring the whipped cream into the coffee. “I wonder how poor Deputy Stilinski’s family is doing. Losing her so close to the holidays.” 

“Oh!” Peter was surprised to realize he could answer that. “I think they’re going to join us for Christmas. Talia just said something about it last night. I gather—” here Peter lowered his voice “—the deputy’s taken his wife’s death pretty hard. Understandable, of course, but Talia mentioned she was worried he might need some help with his son, especially around the holidays.” 

“I’m glad to hear it.” Stiles toyed with the handle on his mug. “Do you…ah…do you know the son? Have you met him?” He glanced up at Peter once, expression somewhere between curious and pained. 

“Not yet,” Peter answered. “He’s named something ridiculous, but everyone calls him Mischief. I admit, the nickname doesn’t give me much hope. I’m not really what you’d call a child-friendly person.” 

Stiles emitted a sudden spurt of laughter. 

“I can see that,” he admitted, expression lightening. “So what else do you do for midwinter? Mulled wine? Yule logs? Sky-clad rituals?”

Peter choked on his coffee at the last one, meeting Stiles’ laughing eyes in disbelief. 

“It’s far too cold for the last one,” said Peter primly. 

“Probably depends on how good the wine is,” Stiles shot back, his scent warming deliciously. 

Peter was seized by a sudden and strong desire to invite Stiles to join in the Hale Pack gathering, to see his pale skin flushed from spiced wine, to see him relax near the heat of the fire, to show him what it meant to be surrounded by love and family. Peter shook his head to clear it, a little shocked at his impulse to include Stiles in anything pack-related. Of course it would never come to be. 

Peter had been taken aback the week before when Talia told him she’d brought the Beacon Hills deputy into the world of the supernatural. He had understood and even approved once she had explained her reasoning, and he could see the advantages, certainly. But it was a calculated risk, and one worthwhile only because of the deputy’s position of power in the non-supernatural world. 

There was no reason to bring an ordinary human—much less one as itinerant as Stiles appeared to be—into the fold. No matter how delectable he smelled or how much Peter wanted to melt away the rime of sadness that seemed to cling to Stiles even through his smiles. 

“Where are you headed next?” Peter asked. “You said you weren’t staying past the holiday break.” 

“I’m not sure,” Stiles replied slowly. “There are a few loose ends to tie up here first…although the hard parts of my job are already done.” He drank some of his coffee. “Are you staying on this coast for law school?”

“Yes,” said Peter. “Our family is very close-knit. I’m not saying I’ll never travel again, but it’s time for me to settle down. There’s a local law office run by old friends of Talia’s—we’ve informally agreed that there’s a job for me whenever I pass the bar.”

“Sounds ideal,” Stiles said. “What would you do if you hadn’t chosen law?” 

“Hmm.” Peter considered it for a minute. “History teacher, maybe? I’ve always enjoyed sharing my knowledge.” He couldn’t resist a smirk, knowing what he really meant was, _showing off how smart I am._

“I’m sure.” Stiles returned the smirk, apparently knowing Peter well enough already to guess his thoughts. 

“What about you?” 

“Detective,” Stiles said with a self-deprecating face. “FBI or police. I could’ve gone either way.”

“What made you choose high-school chemistry teacher?” 

“Circumstance.” Stiles stared down at his cup. “The place I’m from…well, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes you make the best choices from the options available, you know? And teaching isn’t even close to the worst thing I’ve done. Helping kids like Derek is actually pretty neat. He’s a sensitive kid under all that teenage bravado, like most of them are. It’s a tough age, feeling so close to adulthood and not really understanding how much of a kid you still are.” 

“Such wisdom at twenty-five.” Peter smiled into his coffee. 

“I’ve seen a lot in my quarter-century,” Stiles said, his lips curved upward but his eyes far away. 

“Ever seen the Beacon Hills Aquatic Center after hours?” Peter asked impulsively. 

“…no?” Stiles raised his eyebrows, attention firmly back in the present again. 

“Drink up, Mr. Gajos. We’re going swimming.”

Peter let a glint of challenge show as he gave Stiles a direct look. Stiles’ protests died before they were vocalized, and there was something new in his face as he returned Peter’s stare. Something…mischievous. 

“How’d you get the keys?” Stiles asked once they’d left the coffee shop and were hurrying the block and a half to the Beacon Hills Community Center. 

“Derek worked as a lifeguard a few years ago, right before I moved out for college. He made the mistake of leaving his city keys in my car after one of his last summer shifts. By the time I found them, it was, of course, too late. He’d already gone back to school and paid the fine for losing them.”

“I’m sure that’s just how it happened,” Stiles muttered, but he was chuckling softly under his breath. 

The back door opened easily to Peter’s purloined set of keys, and soon he and Stiles were snickering and whispering like wayward school boys as they hurried down the dark hallways toward the pool. Peter left the overhead lights off and they both quieted for several minutes as they looked over the gently undulating water. The sunken lanterns gave the humid room a warm glow, and the faint noise of the pool filter sighed in the background. 

“It’s sort of romantic,” Stiles observed. 

“Mmm,” said Peter. “Want to go for a dip?” 

“I thought you were just trying to impress me with your secret criminal tendencies and stolen keys after I said I wanted to be a detective,” Stiles said, a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth. “But now I think you might be more interested in my body than my mind. What exactly do you plan to swim in?”

Peter shot his companion a quick glance, then, before his courage deserted him, he stripped down to his boxer briefs. With another sideways glance, this one meant to entice, Peter moved to the edge of the pool and slipped over the side. 

“Join me?” he suggested to Stiles, pushing back from the wall and treading water in slow, even movements. 

Stiles, whose mouth had hung slightly open since Peter first removed his shirt, closed his jaw with a click and hesitantly began to unbutton his coat. Peter watched avidly as Stiles peeled off layer after layer, until he stood finally in just a pair of thin, plaid boxers. He was slim but unexpectedly muscled, all sinew and no fat. Even in the dim light, Peter could make out oddly placed scars, areas where the skin puckered around what looked to be old bullet wounds…and just below Stiles’ ribs was a set of white parallel lines that reminded Peter of _claws_ —then Stiles leapt past him, cannonballing into the water and heaving a wave over Peter’s head. 

Questions of Stiles’ apparently violent past fled for the moment, and Peter took blatant advantage of his own greater strength and speed to wrestle Stiles into laughing submission. 

Peter let Stiles drift from his grasp and they floated to a spot in the middle of the pool, where they could both put their feet on the rough surface of the floor. Stiles’ heartbeat was quick, and even over the harsh scent of chlorine Peter could detect the honey-sweet thread of desire. 

He stepped forward deliberately, drawing Stiles close with a hand on either side of his waist. Stiles’ breath stuttered, but he went willingly, tilting his head so that when Peter brought their lips together, the angle was achingly perfect. 

Their tongues tangled lazily, Peter sucking gently and Stiles moaning. Peter took his time, pleasuring them both with teasing strokes and licks, his palms sliding down to cup the taut globes of Stiles’ ass. 

“Mmmm,” Stiles murmured, approving. He put his own hands on Peter’s chest, clever fingers finding the points of Peter’s nipples and toying with them. 

“You,” Peter got out between kisses, “are good at this.”

“I think you bring it out in me,” Stiles gasped, dropping his forehead to Peter’s shoulder. 

“Lucky me,” said Peter, his voice breaking off when Stiles lifted his head and brought their lips back together. 

“We really—” Stiles groaned as Peter bit gently at his lower lip between kisses. “We shouldn’t do this here. Th-this is a…public pool—”

Peter reluctantly brought his hands back to Stiles’ waist and sighed. He brushed their lips together twice more then nodded. 

“You’re right,” he admitted. 

They helped each other out of the water, Peter generously donating his undershirt to the cause of drying the water from their bodies. There was a fragility to the feeling between them, and Peter opted to speak with gestures rather than words. He helped Stiles into his clothing, carefully fastening every button on his coat and arranging his scarf just so around his throat. 

Stiles accepted the ministrations with docility, catching Peter’s fingers after the final button and twining them with his own. They left the pool room hand in hand, and didn’t part until they reached Peter’s car near the coffee shop. 

They didn’t speak much during the drive back to the high-school parking lot, but Stiles periodically pressed long fingers against his lips and smiled. Peter caught the occasional glimpse of Stiles’ shining brown eyes and still-damp hair in the flickering light of street lamps. 

By tacit agreement, neither of them mentioned meeting again to pick up where they’d left off in the pool. Peter knew Stiles was leaving soon, and Stiles had already started to withdraw. Peter parked the Jeep in front of the high-school lot’s lone remaining car—an anonymous gray sedan. It was everything Stiles was not: nondescript, unimaginative, indistinguishable. Peter wondered what had become of Stiles’ mother’s long-ago CJ-5, but he didn’t ask. 

“Thank you,” Stiles said. He unbuckled his seat belt and turned to face Peter, soft and serious and tinging once more toward sad. “This night was…it was more than I could ever have expected it to be.”

“Had high hopes for your conferences, did you?” Peter teased, but he didn’t take his eyes away from Stiles’ face. 

“You’re a good man, Peter Hale,” Stiles told him gravely. “I hope you find everything you want.” He paused, the hint of a grin playing across his face. “Well, maybe not _everything_ you want. A little deprivation is good for the soul.” 

“Go to bed, you’re clearly too tired to think properly. I _should_ get everything I want.” Peter raised his hand and ran a gentle knuckle over Stiles’ cheek. “Sleep well. I’ll see you around, maybe?” 

“Good night,” Stiles replied, fingers closing over Peter’s for just a heartbeat before he swung open the car door and dropped lightly to the frost-chilled ground. 

Peter stayed until Stiles had gotten the car started, then drove slowly away from the school with the scent of spicy-sweet citrus filling his head. 

He fell asleep in his bedroom at Hale House as soon as his head touched the pillow, and if he dreamed, he didn’t remember it. The morning brought the wan sunshine of winter, the smell of strong coffee, and the sounds of his nieces and nephews squealing in excitement. 

Peter lay back and sighed. He could hear his older brother Phillip and sister-in-law Marcie coming up the front walkway, their new baby a short-lived source of fascination for older cousins. He supposed he’d have to get up and greet them soon. 

He took his time in the shower, feeling a regretful twinge as the final notes of Stiles’ scent were washed down the drain. When Peter got downstairs, Laura and Derek had already been pressed into child-watching duty, and the twins Cora and Caleb were hard at work chopping, mixing, and cleaning under their mother’s firm direction.

Peter tried to unobtrusively acquire some coffee without being drafted into service, but Talia, predictably, soon had him coring apples to be stuffed and baked. Resigned to a day of endless preparation, Peter completed his tasks with glacial speed, taking long breaks to sip his coffee and sample whatever Talia had finished making. 

Talia’s husband, Robert, was outside in the back with Phillip, constructing fire pits and arranging for the Yule log. Peter abandoned his kitchen duties after a while to join them, and found his sister’s sometime ally Deucalion had just arrived, bearing gifts of wolfsbane whiskey and copies of his latest book on meditation visions. Peter privately felt the latter was much easier to get through while ingesting the former, but he accepted his share of both with a polite smile. 

After that, the day became both busier and more relaxed. Peter, three stiff drinks into the early afternoon, lounged on a comfortable bed of pine needles and moss and argued half-heartedly with Derek about unimportant things. They discussed the likelihood that the upcoming live-action Batman movie could, as a film about superheroes, be taken seriously, with Peter pointing out that even the last round with Jack Nicholson had been inarguably cartoonish. They were just getting into whether or not the newly successful lacrosse team at Beacon Hills High could ever hope to rival basketball as the school’s most-attended sport when an old, pale-blue Jeep pulled up to the side of the house. 

Peter blinked at it. A CJ-5, if he wasn’t mistaken. He trailed off in his defense of basketball’s superiority as a spectator sport, reminded sharply of Stiles. His sad smiles, his bright eyes, his warm-spicy scent. 

“Hey. Uncle Peter.” Derek poked him and Peter looked over at his nephew. “What were you going to say?”

“How do you like that substitute chemistry teacher of yours?” Peter asked. 

“Well, he doesn’t play basketball,” Derek replied. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Anything else?” 

“He’s pretty smart,” Derek said, thoughtful. “He’s fair, from what I’ve seen. Strict but not…you know, not an asshole about it. He saw me once with Paige after school and he looked…I dunno. Really _happy_. It was weird.”

“Hm.” Peter watched as a tall man in a Sheriff’s Department uniform got out of the Jeep and a small, dark-haired boy scrambled down from the other side. Derek followed his gaze and his expression softened into fondness. 

“That’s Deputy Noah Stilinski. Remember mom told you she’d decided to involve a law-enforcement person in pack business, just so we have a better idea of what’s going on in town? And…to help in case things need some…how did mom put it? Finessing, I think.”

“That’s his kid?” Peter asked. “Mischief?”

“Mieczysław,” said Derek, his pronunciation flawless, as far as Peter could tell. 

“How long did you practice that?”

“A while,” replied Derek seriously. “It was a big deal to mom. She said only the kid’s mother ever called him that, and once she was gone, he told his dad he never wanted anyone to call him by his real name again, because it wouldn’t sound the same. He said no one at school even tried to pronounce it right.” 

Derek paused, weaving small branches of pine together to make a crown. “The whole pack worked on saying his name until we could do it the way his mother had. I was…kind of scared to say it at first, because I didn’t want him to think we were trying to take his mom’s place. But he gave me this huge smile, and then he cried…but he still smiled. And he smelled like—” Derek frowned, thinking “—like the sweetest orange you’ve ever tried. Like joy.”

Peter tracked the progress of the boy and his father as they crossed the spacious lawn and stopped to talk to Robert and Talia, who had put Laura in charge of the twins and left the kitchen. In a couple of hours, the longest night of the year would descend and Talia would lead the greater pack in a run. Afterward, they would burn the Yule log while enjoying roasted chestnuts, sugary baked apples, and spiced wine before a very late midwinter feast. Presumably Talia felt comfortable enough with the deputy to allow him to take part in as much as he could. 

Derek got up to say hello to Mischief and his father, but Peter remained where he was, nursing his glass of whiskey. A movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention and he stilled, trying to see deeper into the forest surrounding Hale House. 

Something was moving from tree to tree, leaving a pale, golden glimmer behind that faded almost immediately when the figure passed on. Peter rose silently, predatory instincts entirely at the fore. He stalked the shadowy figure with patient steps, waiting for it to reach its final tree before he lunged forward, clawed hands extended. 

Peter gripped hard onto the stranger’s shoulders, tackling the lean form to the ground and pressing it into the dirt with a snarl. The man Peter had captured turned his face to the side and spat out a few clumps of grass. It was…Stiles. 

“Hello,” Stiles grunted, chest compressed beneath Peter’s solid weight. 

“What are you—” Peter shook his head then shook Stiles, hissing in annoyance. “I could have killed you. What are you doing here?” 

To Peter’s amazement, Stiles laughed. Weakly at first, then more and more violently, until Peter could hear that he wasn’t breathing properly. 

“Hey,” Peter said, falling back to sit on the rough ground and pulling Stiles against him. His arms supported rather than subdued, and Stiles managed to take a few breaths without succumbing to hysterical laughter again. 

“What are the chances you’ll let me go without some kind of explanation?” Stiles ventured.

“Zero,” Peter replied promptly. “And you’d better do more than give me _some kind of explanation_. You’d better give me _the truth_.” 

“The truth.” Stiles sighed and sank back against Peter, rubbing his hands over his face in weariness. “Well, believe it or not, I was checking the wards around Hale House. The Hale Pack has been increasingly lax about having its emissary or another druid set sigils. The forest _wants_ to protect you, Peter, but it needs guidance.”

Peter opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Speechless, for maybe the fourth time in his life. 

Stiles huffed out a more normal-sounding laugh. 

“I found out about werewolves when I was sixteen,” Stiles said. “My best friend was bitten one night by a…let’s call it a feral alpha.”

“But—” Peter’s brain felt numb and uncooperative. “I don’t understand why you care so much about the Hale Pack. We’ve certainly never heard of you.”

Stiles winced. 

“True enough right now. Can you trust me when I say that, even though I can’t fully explain it, my whole reason for coming to Beacon Hills was to watch over your pack?” 

“I don’t know why you would do such a thing,” said Peter stiffly, pushing back from Stiles and moving into a tense crouch. 

Stiles rose to a kneeling position, smears of dirt and grass on his pale skin making him look like a half-wild creature. His eyes were bright amber even in the scant light under the forest’s canopy. 

“Come with me,” Stiles said after a minute, straightening to his full height and holding out his hand. 

Peter took his measure cautiously, muscles ready to leap forward in violence if he saw the need. But Stiles waited, palm out, face calm, until Peter eventually stood and nodded for Stiles to move forward. He didn’t take Stiles’ hand, but he did follow when Stiles led them farther into the preserve. 

They walked for an indeterminate length of time, past sections of the forest Peter knew he’d never seen before. He was ready to take Stiles back to Talia by force, if necessary, and wring the truth from him, when Stiles halted in front of a near-perfect semi-circle of trees. The center of the crescent was an enormous oak tree, its countless branches twisting in gnarled splendor toward the sky. Peter’s breath caught as he realized they must be at the center of the Nemeton’s grove. Talia and her emissary guarded its location zealously, and to find the mystical tree was not an easy feat.

As Peter watched, witch-lights flickered to life all around and between those bare branches, until the entire grove gleamed with myriad points of brightness. Stiles strode toward the large tree with measured, heavy steps, until he stood beneath it, looking back at Peter with eyes that seemed to hold the lights within them. 

“So, Peter Hale. Here, at the Nemeton, I’m going to tell you the truth…as I know it…as it was.” Stiles took a breath, then continued in a low voice. “In another life—another time—Gerard Argent and his Hunters went after anything supernatural, even though it violated their code. Gerard came to this grove and he tore down this tree. We could’ve avoided so much grief and violence if he’d never destroyed the balance of this place. So many things happened as a direct result of the Nemeton’s crippling.” Stiles paused to put a hand to the great tree. “So many people gone. So much…damage. The Hunters knew it would cause, in their words, _death and destruction_. It didn’t stop Gerard in my time. But what if Gerard had never been allowed to act? What if he could be stopped _before_? What if, Peter?” 

Stiles’ eyes had taken on a glittering, golden hue, and it unnerved Peter profoundly. 

“It requires sacrifice, changing things. A great sacrifice to right a great wrong,” Stiles continued. 

“I dearly hope you’re about to tell me that Gerard was sacrificed,” Peter said. “I remember him. He hated my parents, and he hated my sister.”

“Gerard…Gerard got what he was going to give the Nemeton. Cut down. Returned to the earth.” Stiles scuffed a shoe over one of the giant roots and Peter realized the late Argent had likely become fertilizer for the Nemeton. “And his Hunters learned to be the prey. It’s an old charm, to transform one kind of living thing into another.” Stiles gave the ghost of a smile. “The deer population was suddenly and unusually robust a few years back, I don’t know if anyone mentioned it to you.” 

He took a breath and let it out slowly. “Once the Nemeton was rescued, things began to follow a more peaceful trajectory…but I had to stay—I had to be sure that the timeline was better. Hale House burned, in my earlier life…burned with most of the Hales still inside. Gerard unleashed monsters, sowed discord, armed the world with his prejudices. It’s not…it’s not like that now. And I have to believe it will never come to pass.”

“Stiles….” Peter shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncertain. Stiles didn’t look or smell like he was lying, but his story was hard to believe. Despite the supernatural gold of his glowing eyes, and the fever-flushed pink of his cheeks, Stiles was still the man Peter had wanted to kiss in the pool. It was painful to think that, if what Stiles was saying were true, that man in the pool would always be a time apart, a step out of sync, with the world as it was.

Peter moved to take one of Stiles’ arms and found a thin line of mountain ash had appeared between them, enclosing Stiles within a ring around the Nemeton. He pushed against it uselessly, but Stiles kept talking.

“There weren’t many of us left, when I agreed to come back here. He turned the world against us. Everywhere we went, no matter how many we tried to save, there was hatred and suspicion and Hunters-in-training. I thought—Scott…we thought people would choose love and acceptance instead of hatred and bitterness. But we were wrong.” 

Stiles kept his hand on the Nemeton, his eyes shining more brightly every minute that went by. 

“It was my choice, Peter. My spark, my sacrifice.” 

“Why do you keep saying _sacrifice_?” Peter demanded. 

“The Hale Pack will keep the peace, the Nemeton will guard the balance. Everything that I could fix, I’ve seen through. But I’ve run out of time now.” Stiles leaned back against the Nemeton’s rough bark, sliding down until he was sitting with his legs to his chest and his back to the tree. 

Thin red lines formed around his wrists and neck, growing in uneven patterns; Peter realized in horror that they were blood. 

“You’ll…watch over them, too, Peter? You’ll keep them from harm. I wish…I wish I had been able to do more, but the spell was…so specific, you see. Only one path could be cleared.” Stiles’ luminous eyes closed and he leaned his head back against the Nemeton, baring his neck and the liquid, crimson collar around it. 

“Stiles,” Peter gasped out, tears rising in his eyes and falling unnoticed to the forest floor. 

“I enjoyed it, getting to know you, Peter. A break from—all this. Just for me. Something…just for me,” Stiles whispered. “And it’s not…painful, what’s happening now. Just…necessary.” 

“Stiles, please stop this.” Peter pressed hard against the mountain-ash barrier, but it didn’t yield. 

“Can’t,” Stiles breathed, head lolling to the side as the blood rushed through his strange wounds faster and faster. It soaked into the Nemeton’s roots without a drop lost, until Stiles’ skin was parchment-white, then translucent. 

Peter looked helplessly as Stiles faded, his form growing less and less distinct, until he seemed to be made of witch-lights himself, glowing in the shape of a man. Then the lights scattered and the place where Stiles had been was empty. 

“Stiles?” Peter’s voice was hoarse and over-loud in the grove. 

He sat heavily, just outside the line of ash, dropping his head into his hands and finding his cheeks wet. Peter didn’t know how long it took him to get to his feet and stumble back to Hale House, but the night was cold and dark by the time he saw the light of the Yule log. 

Peter stopped just short of the Hale House lawn, still covered by the forest. He leaned against a tree and took in the midwinter scene before him. His eyes picked out Cora and Caleb, bickering good-naturedly over marshmallows; Laura, standing with her current boyfriend in conversation with Talia and Robert; Deucalion explaining something to Deputy Stilinski that involved a lot of hand-gestures on Deucalion’s part and a polite smile on the deputy’s face. 

Then Peter saw that the deputy’s son, Mischief, was snuggled up next to Derek on a log. Derek’s pine-branch crown was perched crookedly on the boy’s dark head, and his small features were animated as he said something that made Derek burst out laughing. It sounded like joy. 

All this, Stiles had said, hadn’t come to pass in his time. All this, ashes. Peter thought again of the red lines of blood, the sad smile, the sun-bright eyes. 

_Sacrifice_. Righting a wrong. Peter took a breath and walked forward to his pack. What could he do but honor that?


End file.
